Dynasty 8: The Maiden: The Maiden (The Morland Dynasty)

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

  ‘You have Spot with you, mother,’ Thomas said. He was lounging in the windowseat, idly paring his nails with a penknife.

  ‘That is entirely a different matter, as I should have thought you could see. Spot is a house dog. Jasper is a hunting dog. And sit up, Thomas, do. I cannot bear to see you lolling like that. Have you nothing to occupy yourself with?’ Thomas began to straighten himself with a great show of unwillingness which was designed to hide the penknife: his mother thought very ill of that habit… and Henry, seeing his brother was in trouble, came to his rescue as usual.

  ‘Ah, but you see, mother, Jasper thinks he is a house dog too. He would like best to get upon father’s lap, as Spot tries to get on yours, for in his heart he’s no bigger than a cat. He comes in for the company and the warmth of the fire.’ Henry was sharing the small table at the far end of the room, where he had been writing a letter. At the other side of the table, with her back to her mother, Jemima was writing something she was at pains to keep hidden. Jemima, Harry noticed with some sympathy, did not loll or lounge in her seat. Although during the mornings, when there were no visitors, she was allowed by her father’s intervention to wear a frock and sash, her mother had insisted that she must change into adult clothes for dinner. The stiff boning of the bodice and the hoops in the skirt made it impossible for her to sit other than upright, and even leaning forward over her paper was something of an effort.

  His letter being finished, he pulled the sealing-wax towards him, and picked up the candlestick to take it to the fire and light it, the action reminding him how light the days were getting now. ‘I suppose it will soon be too warm for a fire this early in the day,’ he said aloud as he walked to the hearth, ‘and then Jasper will stay out in the hall with the other dogs.’ He smiled at his mother as he spoke, and though she did not smile back, the grimness of her face relaxed a fraction. She loved Henry a little less than Thomas, and therefore scolded him less, but he could sometimes make her smile. Thomas, the first-born, was her darling; Thomas was handsome, looking very like his father, with curly dark hair and a straight nose and a beautiful, if sulky, mouth; Thomas was clever, and high-spirited, and destined to be a great man of politics like his uncle the Duke, for whom he had been named. Henry, on the other hand, was mediocre. He was smaller in stature than his brother, and not handsome, looking too like his mother; his hair was an ordinary light brown, and did not curl, his nose was not straight, his teeth were unremarkable, and he was good at his studies in a painstaking way without being brilliant. Harry, as his mother had conveyed to him since his childhood in many indirect ways, was destined to live in his brother’s shadow, and his business was to help Thomas reach the greatness that was waiting for him.

  To be placed thus second to a brother in every way more indulged would have made some young men bitter; but Harry loved Thomas no whit less than his mother, and a great deal more clear-sightedly, and his own inclinations to love, help and protect Thomas concurred with his mother’s commands. He felt that Thomas was in need of protecting, as much from his mother’s love as his father’s indifference. Thomas, though full of love ready at any moment to spill over, was very proud and easily wounded, something his mother did not understand.

  He lit the candle and then went to the door of the drawing room and opened it. The boy standing outside shoved something hastily into his pocket and tried to look as if he had been standing to attention for the last hour. Henry suppressed a smile. ‘Run and ask Clement if anyone has gone for the letters yet. I have a letter to go.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said the boy, and ran. Henry went back to the table and sat down to seal up his letter. With wax in one hand and candle in the other, he had no hand free to hold down the flap of the letter which, being of stiff paper, was tending to spring open, and Jemima in her quiet, noticing way, reached across the table and pressed it down for him until it was sealed. He smiled his thanks at her.

  The movement called her mother’s attention to her, and Lady Mary said sharply, ‘What are you doing there, Jemima? What are you writing?’

  ‘Only my journal, Mama,’ she replied.

  ‘Bring it to me.’

  Jemima, still with her back to her mother, looked up at Henry with alarm and dismay on her face, and he saw now that there were two writing-books, one concealed by the other. Her eyes and mouth opened in frantic appeal, and Henry gave an infinitesimal nod, and pushed his hand across the table towards her. Her eyes flickered shut with relief, and she pushed the smaller book under his hand, picked up the larger, and took it demurely across to her mother. Henry, amused, slipped the guilty screed inside his coat, wondering what quiet little Jemima could have been writing that was so shocking. He felt sorry for his little sister, who was plain in a world which valued only beauty in women. Now that her governess had started curling her hair, she looked a little better, but she was still too thin, which even the adult cut of her gown could not conceal, and her features were too big for her face, her skin too colourless. He guessed that she led a life of stupefying boredom, but then it seemed to him that all women did. He could only suppose that they liked it.

  He blew out the candle and remarked, ‘How quickly the days grow light, once we reach spring. It seems only yesterday that it was dark at three or four o’clock.’

  ‘Yes, and before we know it, it will be summer,’ Thomas said, jumping up and walking around the room restlessly, ‘and I will be a year older, and still have done nothing.’

  Jemmy put down the knight he had picked up and with the air of one much goaded returned to the old argument. ‘If you do nothing, it is entirely your own fault. I have tried again and again to get you to learn the business of the estate, and you shew not the slightest interest. You do not know the name of any or our weavers or spinners. I daresay you would not even recognize above half of our tenants. How you will manage to run the estate when I am gone I cannot imagine.’

  ‘He will employ subordinates to do it, of course,’ Lady Mary retorted. Jemima took advantage of the distraction to slip away back to her table at the far end of the room. ‘He will in any case be too often in London to run the estate as you do, on a personal basis. His career at Court will be much more important.’

  The vehemence of her voice woke Uncle George for a moment. He stirred in the other fireside chair like a basking whale, and said, ‘Eh? What? Indeed, madam,’ and sank back into slumber. Jemmy did not heed the interruption.

  ‘Even if he does have a career such as you evidently long for, madam,’ he said in exasperation, ‘he must still learn the business of the estate, or how will he govern these paid subordinates? How can he see things are properly done, if he does not know himself how they are to be done?’

  Lady Mary waved this away. ‘He must have trustworthy subordinates. There are always such to be found, if one looks carefully enough.’ Her glance strayed to Allen, sitting in an even more retiring position than Jemima, at the far end of the room, reading a book about improving sheep by breeding with choice rams. He appeared not to be listening to the conversation. Lady Mary went on, ‘He will have Harry, at all events, and you have seen to it that he is growing up surrounded by penniless cousins. Surely he can make use of them.’

  In the fractional silence that followed, Jemima looked at Allen, and saw his lips tighten. Whether the jibe was intended for him or not, it had hurt him. But Thomas had already broken in, waving his hands with frustration.

  ‘But that’s not the kind of thing I meant. I don’t want to do things about the estate. I want to do something interesting. Why can’t I go on a Grand tour, like everyone else? Or go to University? Or join the army? I don’t suppose you even remember that there’s a war on …’

  ‘How can I forget,’ Jemmy said bitterly, ‘when I’m paying for it? Land tax, house tax, excise – and all so that the Guelph can march our men out to defend his precious Hanover against his rival petty princelings. He makes it plain enough he cares no more for England than his father did – I think we ought to shew him what w
e think of him and his German duchy.’

  Thomas saw the argument drifting away from him and towards the eternal debate of Jacobitism, and made an effort to recapture it. ‘I would have thought, father, that you would at least have wanted me to see Italy, considering–’

  Seeing that his brother was about to make a tactless reference to how much time his father spent at Shawes, always a sore point with their mother, Harry began coughing noisily, and Father Andrews, bent on the same mission of rescue, surreptitiously kicked Jasper so that the hound yelped and jumped up, knocking the chess-table so that Jemmy and the priest both had to grab for it to stop it turning over. Lady Mary drew in her breath to expostulate about the unsuitableness of having a hound in the drawing room, and the door opened to admit Clement with the letters and newspapers.

  ‘The boy had already gone,’ he apologized to Henry. ‘Your letter will have to wait until tomorrow, I’m afraid.’

  ‘That will do just as well,’ Harry said, relieved that the embarrassing moment had passed. ‘Shall I take them? Thank you. Here’s one for you, mother, and a note from Shawes, and the rest are for father. Oh, there’s one here from Uncle Thomas, if I’m not much mistaken. Are you going to read that first? Then may I have the newspapers?’ He thrust one of them into Thomas’s hands with a sharp look enjoining to discretion, and retired with the other to his seat.

  Lady Mary looked with dissatisfaction at the note from Shawes in Marie-Louise’s outlandish, spiky hand, and said, ‘Jemima, open the instrument and play to us while we read. The silence is so stupid.’

  Henry smiled to himself, for only last week she had been complaining that there was always too much noise, and never a moment’s silence, because the house was so crowded with people. This week the drawing room did seem strangely empty, for Robert and Rachel were away staying at the house of a bishop from whom Robert hoped for preferment, taking their sons with them; Edmund’s presence had for once been required with his regiment; his three eldest children were staying with their mother’s brother in Scarborough; and Augusta herself was still confined to bed after the birth of her fifth child, a boy, Ernest, who was lying placidly in the nursery beside his year-old brother George.

  Jemima went over to the instrument, and Allen jumped up attentively to pull out a chair for her and open the lid and arrange her music. Under cover of these manoeuvres he whispered, ‘I can be free the whole of tomorrow morning. Would you like to do some Latin? If we start off early enough we can ride up to the Whin, and there will be time for some mathematics as well.’

  Jemima flashed him a grateful look, and nodded, and began to play.

  After a moment Jemmy looked up from his letter and said, ‘Hey-day, here’s some news. Thomas, my brother Thomas, is to be married.’

  Lady Mary looked up sharply. Another brother to live at their expense and fill the Morland nursery with his own children, she wondered? ‘That is very sudden, is it not? I hope she is not a blackamoor. I cannot imagine there can be many English girls in the West Indies.

  Jemmy smiled at the idea, but said only, ‘He is not in the West Indies. He got the fever again, and they took the excuse to send him home with despatches. He writes this from Plymouth. He says he is lucky to have been sent home ahead of time, for the men are dying like flies over there, and Admiral Vernon’s in despair. He wanted a quick action, like the one that took Porto Bello, so that they could avoid staying so long in infected waters, but he could not agree with General Wentworth, and now things have dragged on too long.’

  ‘And who is the girl he is to marry?’ Lady Mary asked. ‘A Plymouth beauty? An admiral’s daughter?’

  ‘Not a Plymouth girl at all, but yes, she is a sailor’s daughter, though only a captain’s, not an admiral’s. He writes that he is travelling at once to Lyme Regis to stay with his friend, Captain Elliott, who bias been invalided out of the service and has taken a house there, “to be near the sea”, Tom says. It is Elliott’s daughter Maria he is to marry. He met her at Portsmouth when he was on his way back to join Vernon’s fleet after his last illness, and they came to an agreement almost at once.’ Jemmy put the letter down and smiled around the room. ‘How pleased I am for him! It is right that Tom should marry for love. I only wish he could be married here, instead of at Lyme. I have half a mind to travel down there.’

  Lady Mary looked disapproving of the idea, but said only, ‘I do not think you will want to go when you hear the contents of my letter. Here will be gaiety enough even for you, Thomas, I think. Lord Chelmsford’s wife Nicoletta has come to stay at Shawes while he is in Ireland, and brought her son Lord Meldon with her. There is to be a house party, and everyone is invited to dinner on Wednesday, and to a ball on Thursday. You would not like to miss all that, would you?’ she suggested to her husband. Jemmy could not tell whether she was pleased with the invitation or not. On the one hand, there were to be important and titled people to meet, and Lady Mary had a proper reverence for tides. On the other hand, she hated Marie-Louise to the extent that she never mentioned her name, or referred to her even indirectly, if she could help it. Jemmy went across to her to look at the letter, and saw with amusement that Marie-Louise, perhaps out of wickedness, had signed it ‘Marie-Louise Fitzjames Stuart, Countess of Strathord’ instead of merely initialling it, which would have been sufficient on such an informal note.

  ‘A dinner, and a ball,’ Jemmy said. ‘And then of course we shall have to have at least a dinner in return. How gay we shall all be. I think, Thomas, that you might postpone running away to join the army for a little while. Perhaps young Robert might give you a hint or two on how to pass your time in gentlemanly pursuits. He will have all the London gossip, at least. And there will be plenty of young ladies for you and Harry to dance with. But how pleased Alessandra and Nicoletta will be to meet again.’ And I, to have an excuse to be more often there than here, he thought to himself. In the ensuing silence the sound of Jemima’s playing was heard. He looked across at her with sudden Pity.

  ‘But why should not poor Jemima have some share in the pleasure? It must be dull for her with Augusta and Caroline away.’

  ‘Oh no, papa’ Jemima said, pausing. She did not care for her cousins, and in any case, she was too happy at the thought of spending the morning with Allen tomorrow, learning Latin and mathematics. Besides, she did not like him to draw attention to her in front of her mother. She knew that part of his pretended preference of her was to spite her mother and emphasize how little he cared for her favourites, his sons.

  Her mother said, ‘How can she have a share in the pleasure, as you put it? She is not invited. These are not social gatherings for a child of ten; they are for adults.’

  Jemima actually saw the idea come to her father, saw his head go up and his eyes gleam with it. ‘I did not mean that. But you know Jemima has not been looking well, since she had that cough during the winter. I think a change of scene and some fresh air would do her good, perhaps some sea air’ He turned to Jemima now. ‘I cannot go myself, that is plain, but how would you like to take my place, chick, and go to Lyme Regis to Uncle Tom’s wedding?’

  The ball was as elegant and splendid as anything Annunciata had ever given at Shawes, from the size and excellence of the orchestra to the quantity and deliciousness of the white soup, which was, after all, made from Annunciata’s own recipe, calling for quantities of chicken, almonds and egg yolks and gallons of thick cream. All the best York society was there, for though there were many who refused to acknowledge Marie-Louise’s title, and even doubted her respectability, yet there were none who refused her invitations. Not least amongst the eager guests were a number of unmarried men of various ages who hoped to persuade Marie-Louise to marry them. She was very beautiful, after all, and, more to the point, very rich, and though she reputedly had a temper, once she was married her property would belong to her husband, and she might mend her manners or find herself locked up in her own house. Jemmy worried from time to time that she might be foolish enough to marry one of these
worthless creatures, but his friend and mentor, Davey, would shake his head and say, ‘There are some mares you cannot breed from.’

  She looked magnificent as she received her guests at the head of the stairs, and every inch a princess. Her gown was all of silver, silver tissue, opened over a silver brocade petticoat with scallops of silver lace gathered up by pale pink artificial roses. Her red-gold hair was dressed high in curls and ringlets, and she wore a pearl half-hoop headdress, and her throat and slender arms were circled with pearls, too. Jemmy stooped low over her head, and then stood for a moment, still holding it, simply gazing at her, thinking how well she would have looked in the diamonds Annunciata had left to Jemima. He should have thought of offering them to Marie-Louise on loan, but it was too late now.

  ‘Have you decided who is to open the ball with you?’ he asked her. Her tawny-gold eyes looked directly into his, and widened slightly at the question.

  ‘Why, I naturally intended that it would be you,’ she said, and he laughed as he kissed her hand again. Mary watched them with some bitterness, aware that they had entirely forgotten her presence for the moment, that they knew exactly what the other was thinking, that they were completely in accord. Now, belatedly, Marie-Louise turned to her with a charming smile which Mary distrusted entirely.

  ‘Dear Lady Mary, how lovely you look tonight. Blue becomes you so. It is a thousand pities you cannot dance, but I hope you will enjoy yourself all the same. There are plenty of card tables.’

  To play cards at a ball was the province of old ladies and old gentlemen and clerics, and Mary did not know whether or not she was being insulted. She could only smile tightly and move on, almost pushed out of the way as she was by Robert and Rachel, anxious to pay their respects. They had come back at full gallop from the disappointing bishop as soon as they heard of the proposed ball at Shawes, and Mary could not avoid hearing the first phrases of Robert’s nasal drawl and Rachel’s fussy fulsomeness.